gold and bonesSully was pretty sure he wasn't cool enough. He had a yellow american appearal hoodie, brown bangs that fell into his blue eyes, and his father's old pentax film camera, but it wasn't enough. He was cool, but not Anthony McCormick cool.
Anthony was effortlessly cool, from the way he dressed to what he talked about. It was cool when Anthony breathed; not that Sully had spent a lot of time thinking about it or anything. On the day in question, an afternoon in May, Sully was walking through the old town district, looking for prospects. He was always looking, wherever he went, framing photographs with his eyes before he ever brought out his camera.
A green fire hydrant sat in front of small brown house where a man was mowing the lawn, sweat glistening on his head, his red plaid shirt tied around his waist. Sully pulled out the pentax, crouched, adjusted the lens, and took the picture. Straightening, he tucked the camera back into his hoodie and continued walking, tossing his hair. His bang
A cappellaMy mother, a famous classical violinist in her day, was on her deathbed and I didn't care. She was bedridden by the usual suspects, old age and a fall, and had been for many months when they called me. "Come see her," they said. "She'll pass on soon." They told me the nurses played Tchaikovsky, her favorite.A cappella4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"No," I said, and hung up the phone, slamming it against the wall, the cord jerking about in a wild dance. I glared at my CD player, as though it would suddenly come to life with violin concertos, then grabbed my coat, and left the house.
The critics never tired of saying she was passionate, that's what always got me. I remember going to her concerts; it was true, she had the most intense face, and her rigid body echoed the tension and frenzy of the music she loved to play. When she practiced, nothing could shake her from scales climbing, climbing, climbing. As a child, I always imag
NumbersNumbersNumbers6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I could not stop seeing
parallels between words
and human flesh.
A poem that could rise up,
hunching its back, a
concentration camp victim
with bare ribs; this
language rolls like the ridges
and dips of a spine, sticking
up through paper skin.
And theyre using the peaks
as an abacus, counting them
as they die.
The Portrait[975 words]The Portrait6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
You see, its hard to explain Jonathans words formed a small puddle on the expensive, imported carpet next to the shattered corpse of the china vase. His down-turned face was painted in shades of red; the light hue of guilt brushed across his checks with two bold strokes of embarrassment for eyes.
It cant be that difficult, just come out with it.
He didnt mean it, Daddy-- Emma tugged on Fathers sleeve.
I'm talking to Jonathan. Father removed Emmas hand from his suit. Don't speak.
I-I heard Emma shout from the kitchen and I thought she had gotten hurt so I ran to see what was the matter and on the way the vase fell over, he said hurriedly, his shoulders slowly hunching and his palms facing the ceiling.
You ran. Fathers eyebrows fought over the territory between them. &
The Critic's Toolkit: LitThe Critic's Toolkit: Literature EditionThe Critic's Toolkit: Lit4 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
Critique, the examination or analysis of a work of art (in our case, a written work of course), can be an enjoyable, educational experience for both the critic and the author. If that sounds like something a teacher would say to you about a subject that makes you alternately fall asleep or want to throw up, don't despair, because it can actually be a great experience. You just need some tools to help you.
The main component to many critiques of beginner's work tends to be technical. This can be as basic as misspellings and punctuation errors, which can be an easy thing for you to put in your critique in order to give it more substance, but the technical aspect can also take on a wider scope. Technical critique can examine sentence structure in terms of general readability and how clearly an idea is portrayed, to even the metaphoric and the way imagery was used.
HereFour year old Keaton gripped a green crayon in his tiny fist, pressing it hard against the paper. His parents fought beneath the sound of the tv in the background. Scribbling in rhythmic circles, he furrowed his brow. His mother came into the room, a dishtowel in her hands.Here5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"What are you drawing, Keaton?" Her voice had the tremble of someone forcing their words to sound happy.
"Money," he said, then glanced up.
She came closer, examining the pages scattered around him from behind. All contained a dollar, done again and again in various sizes.
"You've drawn a lot of it."
"Yeah," he said, "we need a lot, so we can be happy."
She put a hand to her lips, standing there, then bent down beside him. "Money can't make us happy, Keaton."
"I am going to draw so much that you and daddy never fight again."
His mother sighed, putting a hand to her forehead, and was silent for a moment as he continued to color in green bill
forget yourselfDear J,forget yourself6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I thought I saw you today. It scared me; a cascade of butterflies erupted in my chest. My body lurched and my long-legged chair screeched like an out of tune cricket amidst the orchestral warm-up of the coffee shop but no one, no one noticed--no one noticed you. And no one saw the shade of fog that overtook my eyes, the hollow, haunted shade; like a tear on the cheek, the look that took all afternoon to dry. Are we both invisible?
picked cleanpicked clean6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I grieve in three shades: gray, black, and in that pinkish hue you find on the underbelly of a dead fish. I walk through cemeteries and the gravestones pour out their hearts to me, and I am glad to have umbrella when the pale-faced sky opens all the faucets in the house at once.
I grieve inside of acoustic-guitar strings. Its quiet there, and the warm hum reminds me of the glowing ember gnawing its way out of me from right behind my lungs, puncturing them to let out every breath I took from the crisp winter air that nips my face, licks me right on the nose, bathes my face in icy feather down.
I go to the art store to look through empty frames, because your face is in every one, and the gray in me turns to black. And I am the pebbles on the bottom of the river, slippery, holding up the water, and I am below the pebbles. I am the dirt. I am grimy and there is grit in my face, my mouth, my lungs, and I know what with
white goes upthe weight of the broken morningwhite goes up5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is shards of a vase on the floor.
we are not discussing anything.
when he sits, he folds himself.
he folds himself a thousand times.
folds himself inside.
the piano calls my sorrow
by name. I don't know how
it learned to do that, and
I don't like the feeling, as if
there are seagulls loose inside
and they kept circling overhead.
my body opens
the frenzy of silence.
after our collisionafter our collision6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
After our collision at the laundromat, I swing my legs over stone walls at the wharf. I listen as the screaming gulls throw the insults I threw at you back in my face, again and again, with the sting of their sharp claws, and I wonder when they lost their language. I wonder when, what date and time, man finally took the beauty of their songs and turned it into strung sentences of panic, pain, and hate.
I wonder when the waves became numb; I wonder how they became so numb as to let people take the true songs away from their white trumpeters. I wonder why the ocean is so calm, so patient, so forgiving, even as oil drums spill and sink and kill.
When I leave the graveyard of old wooden docks their skeletons follow me, the bones sticking straight up out of the water, worn by wind and sea, as I drift back into the bustling hornets nest.
I have to wonder--am I necessary? Im just one more worker bee; I can claim n
untitledIt only happened sometimes. I would put on a new shirt and suddenly feel wrong, feel the foreign quality of my own body parallel with the unknown fabric. Walking down the college hallway in the afternoon, shadowed except where golden light spilled across the floor from open doorways, I would see a girl, a stranger, and the sight would stir in my hidden heart; in my loneliness. A magazine would fall open, and I would feel no connection when I saw floral prints and long hair and earrings.untitled3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sometimes I felt more like the leaves and sun in the background of photographs rather than a person. Or like the metal and glass walls of a skyscraper, or the chipped clay of brick roads. I felt these things very deeply. I thought they inspired me, but what I didn't understand was why I could not make anything out of them. They arrived as sparrows do, and left before I could catch them.
There were some things I could hold onto.